Her little legs are working, she's going somewhere
She's climbing up the stairs
And when she reaches the top her dreams will be there
But they won't.
Maybe it's wrong for me to assume how she feels. Maybe it's wrong for me to cast my own experiences with anorexia onto hers. All I know is that I'm saying a special prayer for her tonight. She has never found the way out. There is a way out. She just never found it. Or if she did, she chose not to take it. She is so skinny she looks as though her legs will break. She keeps panting but she won't stop. There is nothing beautiful or tragic about it. She is nothing but bone. She is starving. She is sick. She is me if I don't get my life back on track.
I don't want to be her.
I'm sorry for her. I hurt for her. I wish and hope and dream for her.
But I don't want to be her.
I don't want her to be her.
I don't want anyone to be her.